


I! I am Pope!

by bronson



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance Italy, Gen, Historical Inaccuracies, Mentions of Frerin, allusions to Smaug if you squint super hard, bastardization of naming conventions, mentions of Dain I, mentions of Dís's Canonical Husband, mentions of Thrain, mentions of Thror, unbetaed oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:22:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronson/pseuds/bronson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Gaze upon the Vatican. Who sits there, my son?</i><br/>"My uncle," Filippo would answer. "The Pope."<br/> <br/>---</p><p>The fall of the line of Durin in Renaissance Italy. (More heavily inspired by The Borgias rather than actual history, admittedly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Character name changes I just based on how close they sound to canon rather than a translation of name meanings. I hope it's not too confusing. Also here, I've patterned the Durins after the Sforzas rather than the Borgias. Sort of. Bear with me. Also, I refrained from giving Popes their papal names for reasons of, uh, convenience.
> 
> Thorin - Turino Durini.  
> Fili - Filippo Durini.  
> Kili - Cirillo Durini.  
> Dis - Desideria Durini.  
> Frerin - Ferrante Durini.  
> Thrain - Terenzio Durini.  
> Thror - Teodoro Durini.  
> Dain I - Durante Durini.  
> Balin - Baldovino Durini de Infangati.  
> Dwalin - Duilio Durini deInfangati.  
> Fundin - Fulgenzio Durini de Infangati. (as above, etc)  
> Borin (Fundin's grandfather) - Bonifacio Durini de Infangati. 
> 
> Other terminology: _condottiere_ \- mercenary company, a system of warlodrism prevalent during the time. For example, the House of Sforza was established by a known mercenary, Francesco Sforza. _Gonfaloniere_ \- captain-general of the papal army.

_Did you take after your father?_

As a child, Filippo learned to laugh at the notion. _Fathers_. The Durini endured and prospered because they came from a long line of nephews, not firstborns.

Still, he asked his mother often: _who was my father?_ Donna Desideria, the Duchesa of Milan in all but name since the death of her brother Ferrante and the election of Turino into the College of Cardinals, never needed to answer it.

"He was nobody," she often said.

In truth, Filippo and his brother Cirillo were her bastard children with a Visconti, an insignificant second cousin--or was it third?--of the (deposed) Duke of Milan who died years before with no heir. History would not remember him. Instead, they would remember Durante, the first Durini to ever sit the chair of St Peter, who carved out a place for Milan among the Papal States when he bested Florence and Venice alike for the bounty of the city.

All that remained of the unfortunate Visconti was Filippo's hair, blond like that of the Visconti Lombards that came to Italy centuries before. Not even his name survived. At their birth, Filippo and Cirillo were proclaimed Durini. The question of their paternity came and went with the power they wielded in Rome. Shortly after Cirillo's birth, their Visconti father died in an ill-fated crusade beyond the Alps--and with him, his claim on his heirs and that of his kingdom.

Popular defamation of their family would have it that Cirillo was Turino's own child, born of incest between the Holy See and his sister. In the same breath, they cast Desideria as the murderer of his own brother, Ferrante, to secure the duchy of Milan for her own sons. According to their enemies, their family was marked by depravity, even insanity. From the indiscretions of cousins in Rome, to the brutality of their _condotierri_. As heirs to the name, Filippo and Cirillo were given roles in myth before they were even born.

_Vox populi_ , said the Rome of the ancients, to which his mother always said that a thousand years had writ the city in dust and ruin. The crown of the Emperors was lost. The masters of Rome had died. The voice of the people of Rome, such as it was, had long faded into anarchy.

_Gaze upon the Vatican. Who sits there, my son?_  

"My uncle," Filippo would answer. "The Pope."

* * *

 

 

Turino Durini was the first son of a first son. His election into the College of Cardinals had been a grisly affair of vindication. He was supposed to be the heir--effectively, the crown prince--of Milan, but unrest had shaken their hold upon their lands until the Durini once again needed to assert their power over Rome. Early on, it was clear to all that his brother Ferrante had neither the temperament nor the disposition to take on the ecclesiastical princedom that the Pope lay in wait for his nephews. So it was that Turino, a man of the sword rather than the cloth, came to Rome a Cardinal at eighteen, with guile in his heart and war in his veins.

He was twenty-two when he achieved his highest income in office. With benefices bestowed upon him by Teodoro's allies--titles from Spain, a bishopric in his homefront of Milan, incomes and offices in the then Spanish-dominated Naples--he languished in the luxury of his position.

He was twenty-three when Teodoro Durini fell ill one night after the Lenten festivities. When Teodoro died days later, Turino lost not only his grandfather but his patron. The throne of St Peter had fallen out of their reach.

Revenge burned hot in the young Cardinal. His grandfather was murdered, of this he was certain. He did not lack for suspects: the Orsini, the vindictive French, the Florentine bankers, or the very members of the College of Cardinals themselves--each one held considerable stakes in the death of a Pope.

Turino was twenty-four when he found himself cast off from the favorites of Rome. With a new Pope elected, he was suddenly without friends. As a cardinal, he was a prince of the church, but without the powers of office he once enjoyed, the death of his grandfather brought about his powerlessness.

In Rome, he became fodder to the vultures in red.

* * *

 

 

The Durini were not lacking for allies. Their cousins, the Durini of Pesaro, won fame and fortune through the condottieri--warlords of renown, tracing their origins to Durante's own brother Bonifacio who, at the height of Durante's power, served as _gonfaloniere_ , captain-general of the papal armies. Generations later when Teodoro was elected into the papacy, Baldovino's father Fulgenzio would be the second _gonfalonieri_ to serve their kinsman.

The two branches of the Durini would forever hold a pact of mutual benefit. Whenever the Durini called their banners, Bonifacio's sons came with arms and mounts in answer. And so tradition went, until Turino was the head of their family, and Baldovino Durini--known as _Il Maestro_ , for his reputation as a doctor of the law and patron of scholasticism--took up the mantle of his forefathers.

Baldovino carved out his home in the seaside city of Pesaro, a city that shrunk next to the city of Milan under their more illustrious cousins. Pesaro was one of the many benefices that Pope Durante bestowed upon his brother Bonifacio. It was not a seat of political power, but a strategic satellite for the affairs of their family. There, Baldovino had thousands of soldiers at the command of his brother's _condottieri,_ all within reasonable distance from Rome.

_Durini de Infangati_ , they styled themselves. _Durini of the mire_ , the branch of the family that ransacked the mountains in the name of their patron Durante and amassed the wealth of the Orsini family they had unseated generations before.

On a much needed rest from the politics in Rome, Turino visited his cousin whose wisdom he frequently sought when he needed guidance.

"The French are displeased, cousin," Baldovino told Turino. An older man of fifty, he was without children. His only heir was his younger brother, Duilio. _Il Capitano_ , a revered soldier in his own right who led the _condottiere_ at Baldovino's bidding.

Turino was not surprised by the news. As a cardinal driven to impunity, he was not directly affected by the political turn in an ever scattered, tumultuous Italy. As an enemy of the Pope, however, he felt the perverse pleasure of seeing Rome at the brink of ruin.

"Let them," Turino said. "Let the French decimate Italy. I would invite them into the Vatican myself if I wouldn't be hated for it in the end."

At this Turino laughed, but Baldovino was silent. _Il Maestro_ was not just a name he earned for his intellect. There was a time when a young Turino had come to Pesaro for his tutelage. In the coming years, Turino's sister-sons would be under his instruction as well. There were times when his role as both cousin and teacher came into conflict, when the call of family directly opposed his wisdom. In this case, both sides of his sensibility gave him cause for alarm.

His young cousin was passionate in his youth, and even more so now. Though his fire burned low in a much changed Rome, Turino still refused to back down.

"That would be unwise, surely," Baldovino cautioned. A soft-spoken man if there ever was one, he saw no benefit in being directly confrontational. In truth, he was worried. Turino was speaking out of anger, more so than usual. The entire Durini clan supported anyone that bore the title of patriarch, whether it was Durante the first of their Popes, or Teodoro, Turino's ill-fated grandfather who foolishly envisioned the papal crown as his own birthright.

To throw themselves to the dogs, however, was not the way of Italy. Certainly not of Baldovino Durini de Infangati, Lord of Pesaro.

"Our allies in the court of Ferdinand will not be pleased with a French invasion, our own welfare notwithstanding. Allies of Spain will not fare well should such a scourge descend upon us from the Alps."

Turino waved him off, thick with bravado. Baldovino, however, knew differently. Turino may be as defiant as any member of their house, but he was not completely unreasonable. He believed himself a better man than his father Terenzio, the current Duke of Milan.

Terenzio, whose blind indecision had inadvertently diminished his political might. A great flaw from which Terenzio would never recover. Milan was a powerhouse. It deserved a leader worthy of its riches.

If God was indeed good--and He was, or used to be, when a more favorable time saw the Durini rise to prominence many years ago--then the young cardinal would not follow his forefathers into infamy. Or so Baldovino prayed.

"Nothing would be please me better than to see my grandfather's murderer beheaded. You know that, cousin," Turino said. Past the hardness of Turino's eyes, Baldovino saw the grief that Turino never allowed to show.

Turino loved his grandfather. As Pope, Teodoro bore the might of kings--possibly even of Caesar himself. For the young Turino, Teodoro had been infallible. That he met such a grisly end was unforgivable.

"I would drag him in the mud myself, and all the cardinals that supported him. But you're right, _maestro_ ," the familiar title brought a slight smile to Turino's grim visage. Baldovino chuckled in turn. "There is a time and place for battles."

Baldovino nodded, pleased. "I've taught you well, haven't I?"

Turino scoffed. "Don't take all the credit."

"Forgive me, Your Eminence," Baldovino smiled. "For committing such a sin upon your holy person."

Turino laughed. He raised his hand in the regal gesture of his Order, "You're forgiven, my son," and made the sign of the cross over Baldovino's bowed head.

"Ah," Baldovino reverently received his blessing in good humor. " _This_ much closer to salvation."

 

* * *

 

 

At thirty-five, Turino was called from Rome to attend the funeral of his father, the Duke of Milan. As befitting his station, Terenzio deserved the presence of his illustrious peers. The _signore_ of Florence and Venice, the King of Naples, the cardinal-legates of Rome. On that spring day, however, Turino stood at the foot of his father's body with no one else in attendance.

He was laid upon a bier in the great hall of the castle. Dressed in his livery and raiment, Terenzio in death was the glorious figure he never was in life. Turino felt no grief at the loss.

"So you came."

Turino turned to see his sister, the beauty of Milan that was Desideria Durini. Like Turino, Desideria had been a pawn in their grandfather's game. While he was forced into the ecclesiastical role, Desideria was forced into marriage--to a long forgotten Visconti that threatened the Durini's hold on Milan. He who was the rightful heir to the duchy (however removed they had been to the direct line of succession), whose family had waged a silent, long-standing war against them from the sidelines to support their claim. None withstood the might of the Pope, however, and the querulous yet insignificant Viscontis were soon subdued by marriage. It was to their inevitable outrage, then, that upon their union Desideria refused the Visconti name for herself as well as for her husband's heirs. Her sons staunchly remained Durini, and soon forgot that they were sprung from anyone else's loins but that of their mother.

In one fell stroke of a joyless marriage, the Durini secured Milan and silenced their enemy.

"Sister," he greeted her. In all his life, no other person could be a balm to his wounds than the presence of Donna Desideria, the rock of the Durini.

She came into his arms as naturally, as warmly, as she used to when they were children. Her embrace a comfort he'd forgotten he needed.

"We are orphans, then," Desideria spoke into his ear. "Poor, luckless orphans."

In the splendor of her beautiful gown and jewels in her hair, Desideria was nowhere near the destitute, luckless orphan sudden misfortune could have rendered a soul on the streets. With Turino in the church and Ferrante dead for years, she was the Duchesa of Milan until young Filippo was of age. And that was a long time yet.

Turino kissed her cheek. "Whatever shall we do?"

"Beg, perhaps," she laughed, loud and boisterous. She never outgrew the willfulness of her youth, when her magnanimous presence made itself even more known by her vivacious hold on life. "Beg for alms and have the Florentine bankers count our tears in place of gold."

"Tears," Turino smiled, "that you've shed yourself, I would suppose." As they fell from the embrace, Turino cupped her cheek. Her eyes shone bright, not with grief but with the clarity of mind that was unmistakably her.

"Oh, barrels of them, brother," she teased, leaning into his hand. With a sigh, she sobered. "I've missed you."

"Truly?"

"You doubt my sincerity, do you?"

Turino kissed her cheek again. "Never."

"Then don't question my affection," Desidera clicked her tongue. "Have I ever given you cause to doubt my love?"

Turino's fingers carded through her hair. "Never."

"I knew it," she said, stepping out of Turino's arms to take her own place by their father's body. Her fingers trailed over the intricately woven designs of his raiment. "You're a better man than our poor father."

"I'm a better man for never doubting you?"

"Why yes, brother," she smiled at him. "Father trusted nobody and look at him now. Dead, with no one to grieve him."

She was right, of course. Terenzio had forgotten the true strength of their name. It was not in titles that the Durini made their way into their world, but the strength of their family. To trust a Durini was to put your hands in God. Durante made sure of this, and so had Teodoro. Turino never forgot.

Turino came to stand by his father as well, across from Desideria. Her hand came to rest on Terenzio's fists, forced to a solemn pose at his breast. If this was the rite of mourning, then it was an unceremonious affair. Almost business-like. The heirs to the name gazing upon their father with indifference, an undisguised relief breathing into the space between them. Where there should be compassion, as befitting the loss of a parent, they instead languished in quiet joy.

At long last, they were the masters of this house.

In the silence, Turino heard the quick patter of feet on the flagstones. He looked up to find his nephews--Filippo, a curious boy of six, and Cirillo, all of three, holding his brother's hand--looking curiously at them from the far end of the hall. Turino half-expected them to run into his arms. Instead, they stood at a respectable distance. Reverence for the dead, it seemed, had skipped a generation.

The two boys wore solemnity over their shoulders like princes presented at court.

It took a while for Turino to realize that in this tableau, he was their king.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, apparently this fic is gonna be longer than two chapters whoops. 
> 
> Additional character name changes:
> 
> Gróin - Guerino  
> Glóin - Giuliano  
> Óin - Orsino
> 
> As for ages, in this chapter Thorin is 39, Dis is 34, Fili is 15, Kili is 13, and Frerin would have been 37. Thror has been dead for 16 years, and Thrain for 10. I'll edit the tags as relevant content appear in the fic.

It was many years before Turino saw his sister-sons again. As soon as they were able, they were sent to Pesaro to begin their instruction. Baldavino wrote Turino frequently of their progress.

Nearly a decade later, Turino was well into his thirties when they were finally brought to Rome. If he had been more popular with the Pope, they would've been received in the courtly splendor of visiting dignitaries. Instead, they arrived in the dead of night, with only Turino and his meager gaggle of footmen at his back.

In true Durini fashion, however, they were not to be dissuaded from some pomp.

At the head of the sizable company was the _condottieri_ of Pesaro. Marked in the colors of their house--an angry red awash with regal blue--they rode into the city astride the very best mounts bred in the stables of Milan. Though they bore no crowns to distinguish their nobility, Filippo and Cirillo were unmistakable gentry. Tall and proud in their bearing, even in their youth, they sat upon their horses as though expecting a homecoming for heroes.

Beside them rode their cousins, thus formed like shields upon their flanks. Duilio, _Il Capitano_ , his chest emblazoned with the twin axes he had taken on as his own sigil. Astride him his uncle Guerino, whose sons Orsino (a doctor by training but a soldier by deed) and Guiliano (Duilio's lieutenant) trailed after Turino's nephews.

Five hundred mounted swords filtered into the city gates. From the thunder of hooves, it sounded as though they brought the entire crushing fist of Pesaro and Milan alike upon the narrow streets of a diminished Rome. Even with no one in attendance for a formal reception, the streets were soon populated by curious eyes.

 _My people have come_ , Turino thought snidely as he surveyed the thickening stream of bystanders emerging from the dark street corners. _Whores, blackguards, fishermen, thieves,_ the rot of Rome that thrived in the shadow were the first to behold the heirs of his house.

"Cousins," Turino hailed them, raising his arms in greeting. "Welcome to Rome."

The horses came to a halt a respectable distance away. His nephews dismounted with measured grace. From afar, Turino noted their hesitation, the cautious way with which they relinquished their reins to their footmen.

Filippo was the first to greet him. A handsome lad, by Turino's estimate, but with the unfortunate coloring of his father. _No matter_ , Turino thought, in complete faith of his sister's child rearing.

"Uncle," Filippo greeted in turn, a wide grin on his face. Catching himself, his steps faltered for a moment before he smoothly recovered his manners. "Your Eminence."

Pleased, Turino gave a gracious nod. "Nephew."

His arms, however, remained outstretched. _Come_ , his hands gestured. With renewed eagerness, Filippo returned his embrace. Turino was still the taller of the two, but Filippo was not far behind.

Waiting a few feet away was Cirillo. _Ah, a Durini at last,_ was Turino's first thought as[1]  he observed the younger. Hair dark as his own, Cirillo resembled him the most. He was not as tall as his brother, but his steps were surer. In Cirillo's enthusiastic embrace, Turino found a far readier spirit than that of Filippo. A restlessness seemed to bounce his feet; the thrum of the boy's thin arms around his shoulders unmistakable.

 _This one is a fighter_ , he surmised. Since that moment, he would not be swayed to think otherwise--even against the wisdom of others.

Side by side, Filippo and Cirillo were as much of a contrast as the warring colors of their brocade. Two halves of a whole, almost; light and dark. The Durini had been founded on the loyalty of kinsmen. Like a warring entity: swordhands alongside sworn shields.

"Let me look at you," Turino said, taking his fill of them. A surge of pride warmed his heart to see his heirs stand so proudly before him. His eyes saw beyond the slight fidget of young Cirillo's feet, and the reserved caution in Filippo's bearing. To him, his young nephews spoke of great promise. He could see them among the courts of European royalty, but that was only half the battle.

"Such gangly arms," he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Have our cousins been starving you?"

"Ha!" said a gruff, domineering voice that could only come from Duilio. By far, the tallest member of their family--all branches of it--Duilio was as much of a character as he was a warrior, whose bald head often shirked the constraints of helms in the heat of battle, and of those he saw a great many.

Turino feigned bemusement. "Do you not agree that my nephews seem ill treated?"

"It is I who has been ill treated, cousin," Duilio said, arms folded across his chest. "These cubs seem docile to you now but they are the very Devil himself."

From the corner of his eye, Turino saw Filippo bristle in mock insult while Cirillo unabashedly yelped in indignation.

"A good quality, I'm sure," Turino rebutted.

Duilio barked another laugh. "My brother would not agree."

"But do you?" Turino asked, knowing full well that even though Baldovino kept a strict regimen of instruction for the boys, Duilio's instruction in weaponry and soldiering was just as exacting. Nothing short was expected for Turino's heirs.

Duilio smirked. "They haven't bested me yet." The look he gave the boys, however, spoke of tender affection. "I expect Italy to tremble when they do but until then," he glowered not unkindly, "they are adequate."

Turino smiled. "Then they are the best."

"Short of me," Duilio interjected.

Turino held up his hand in caution. "Short of us."

Duilio smiled back. "If His Eminence has not completely forsaken the sword for the scepter, then yes. Short of _us_."

 

* * *

The following morning, Turino presented his nephews to the Pope, sat upon a throne as though protective of his hoard. The Pope was an elderly man, said to have been elected because of his renowned wisdom in all things. A mediator of conflicts, proverbial father to great kings. His predecessor, Turino's grandfather Teodoro, saw the height of a schismatic Church and, with it, the Turks that came like the tide in the chasm that separated Christendom.

This Pope promised unification, but any man could spout promises in exchange for votes. In Rome, this was the currency. Valuable, like gold, but just as fickle.

"Your Holiness," Turino greeted. With gritted teeth, he bowed low. Behind him, his nephews and his cousins bowed as well. Noticeably, the de Infangati complied in a measured, half-hearted manner.

A subtle reminder that the Romagna bent their knees to no power except their own.

"My nephews, Filippo and Cirillo Durini."

The Pope took his time in greeting them. A long silence fell upon the congregation, to the point that the assembled Cardinals surrounding the throne had begun to bristle, looking at each other awkwardly. The Pope, as though unfurling his great self, shifted in his seat. Slowly, steadily, asserting his authority even in something as simple as courtly etiquette.

A full minute had passed before he spoke. "Come," he told them, offering his hand.

Obediently, the boys did as they were expected. They took turns kissing the Pope's ring. Turino had to restrain a smile, however, when Filippo's lips kissed only air.

The Pope visibly stiffened, his lined face growing stern.

In the years since the Pope's election, Turino had been met only with indifference. He was easily dismissed, with favors and benefices showered upon his peers. It was with great pleasure, then, that he now observed the slow churn of outrage in the Pope's countenance. If he would not have the Pope's patronage, then he would have his anger.

_Let him see the defiance of the Durini._

Filippo took his place beside his uncle. They shared a look between them.

"Mind your cheek," Turino whispered.

"Yes, uncle," Filippo whispered back, but the smile he gave his brother promised anything but obedience.

"And how do you find Rome?" the Pope asked them. His voice boomed in the enclave.

Filippo, chin raised in the proud manner of a prince, smiled with brittle courtesy. "Chaotic, Your Holiness."

"Alive, Your Holiness," Cirillo added, softening the bite in his brother's tone. "We have never seen so many people of such..."

"...diversity," Filippo finished for him. "We are desperately eager to know everyone of note in Your beautiful city. So then we respectfully invite His Holiness and," he gazed upon the cardinals in attendance, "Their Eminences to a humble feast in our uncle's villa."

Turino cleared his throat. "My nephews are eager to sample the hospitality of Rome."

The Pope waved him off abruptly as though annoyed by Turino's very presence. "Yes, yes. We've heard your nephews clearly enough. We will be in attendance."

The dismissal was a cutting insult. Turino would have bristled, but his nephews were visibly startled enough for him. _Good_. He wanted them to see what their family had to endure.

There was no better kindling for glory than vindication.

 

* * *

 

"I don't understand how you suffer _His Holiness_ ," Filippo said. He stood in front of the mirror, hands worrying at the fit of his clothes. "He insults you in front of your kin, uncle."

"Well he _is_ the Pope, brother," Cirillo pointed out. He was all but draped on his stomach across the foot of his brother's bed. Cirillo could be a prince on his feet, but he was a child still, easily taken by his own rakish, haphazard whimsy when the pageantry of public spectacle had already fallen away.

"Exactly," Filippo argued. "What kind of Pope is he if he doesn't know his manners?"

"He's a barbarian in kingly regalia," Turino said. He was sitting near the bed. The crimson robes of his office shifted as he crossed his legs.

"Where does he come from, anyway?" Filippo asked.

Turino shrugged. "Who knows?"

"He's neither Durini nor Orsini. Not a Colonna, nor a Piccolomini. He doesn't even come from Florentine stock." Filippo frowned. "Or does he?" He shook his head. "Baldovino wouldn't speak so terribly of him if he were a Medici."

"Baldovino doesn't like him either, does he?" Turino asked, amused. He knew full well what his cousin thought of the Pope, but it never ceased to entertain Turino to recall just how much his cousins supported his opinion.

Cirillo chuckled. "Baldovino thinks him an affront to Italy. 'All greed and no strategy,'" he mimicked Baldovino's tone, slow and sagacious like an approaching storm.

Turino grew serious. "And you think this laughable?"

Cirillo sobered. "No, uncle."

Filippo echoed, "Of course not, uncle."

"You will do well to remember your lessons," Turino said. "As my heirs, you must know them by heart."

Cirillo straightened, all humor gone. "We always do, uncle." The boy's good spirits were just as quick to rise as they were to plummet. A telling flaw, thought Turino, who valued self-confidence as a cornerstone of good leadership.

"We have been taught well," Filippo added. He turned to face their uncle, every inch of him sincere. "We will not disappoint you."

Turino looked at each of his nephews with grim seriousness, but his gaze lingered upon the elder. "You won't be young for long. You know this."

They nodded in earnest, quick to prove their worth. Their uncle was not to be disappointed.

"Soon, I will need you here. With me."

"And we will be with you, uncle," Cirillo said, nodding vigorously. _Still a child after all_ , Turino thought. _So eager to please_.

"We will be with you now, if you'll have us," Filippo affirmed, just as gamely. Though Cirillo was the more restless of the two, it seemed that Filippo was more impatient.

Turino smiled, his ice thawed. "Not yet." He stood up, gathering his robes about him. "For now, we feast."

 

* * *

As expected, the Pope arrived encumbered with a grand retinue. He had long gone back on his promise that he would introduce austerity and humility into the Papacy after the excesses of Teodoro's reign. Instead, he seemed fit to outdo it.

It was to his great chagrin, however, that the festivities were arranged with the sole purpose of outdoing him.

Jesters, dancers, and bards littered Turino's halls. Silk of every color adorned broad tapestries depicting the deeds and honors of the Durini, leaving no wall bare. The feast itself was a bounty on the long wooden tables: roast suckling pig for each cardinal in attendance; roast duck, pheasant, crousets, and rabbit; veal of the finest cuts; mousse, apple, and jam tarts. Wine from the farthest reaches of Venetian trade flowed unceasingly from an army of servants.

Most of Turino's benefices had been emptied just for the occasion, and he was not reluctant to show it.

From the balcony, Turino observed his guests, the sole cleric in red that wasn't indulging in either food or flesh. St. Peter would blush at the indulgences of his descendants; there were as many courtesans in attendance as there were cardinals and as for the Pope himself--well, he would have only the best that his subordinates cared to sample.

Filippo and Cirillo were two awkward young boys in the thrum of unabashed vice. They sat nearest the Pope, as was the custom, but touched nothing else except for their food, and conversed with no one else but each other.

"You've mercilessly thrown your nephews to the dogs, I see," Duilio remarked gruffly. He stood beside Turino, elbows leaning against the stone balustrade.

Turino sipped his wine. "So you _have_ deprived my sister-sons in Pesaro."

Duilio huffed a laugh. "My brother doesn't care for lavish feasts, as you know."

"Well and good, then, that they've come to Rome."

Beside Duilio, his uncle Guerino laughed as well. "Rome is not where young boys learn to fight." He referred to his own grown sons Orsino and Giuliano who, like him and his brother, had taken up the soldiering life of the _condottieri_. When a bishopric had been offered to them, they blatantly refused. The Durini of the mire, they said, would only soil the cloth of holiness.

"I would disagree, cousin," Turino said. "Rome was built by warriors of old, if you remember your history."

Guerino half-heartedly conceded the point. "Rome is different now."

"Well, yes," Turino replied. "It's worse."

Duilio looked at him, his gruffness softening. "Yet you live here still."

Turino gave a tired smile. "I thrive here still." It was not a boast, but a burden on his shoulders. "I must."

"You can return to Milan," Duilio said. "My brother and I would rest easy knowing you're well inside our borders. _Desideria_ would rest easy."

"Desideria doesn't need me." He smiled, "I've heard tell that she has made a better duke than my father."

Guerino and Duilio both grinned. As the commanders of the combined forces of the Durini, they frequented Milan enough that they were intimately familiar with the politics of Terenzio's court. They were well prepared to ride into the city at any whisper of sedition but in the years that followed Terenzio's death, there was very little need for violence.

"Aye, she's been doing remarkably well," Guerino said.

"Was there any doubt?" Turino said, echoing his sister's favorite words.

"Never," Duilio staunchly replied. "But..."

"But?" Turino prompted.

"Rome has shut its doors on our family, Turino," Duilio answered, his usual gruffness replaced with worry. "Your talents are wasted here."

"I will not leave," Turino insisted, his voice growing edged with exasperation. "I will not flee to my home, tail between my legs like a common man. I am a Durini, for God's sake." He put down his cup with barely restrained anger. "I will not be cowed while my grandfather's murderer sits upon the throne he'd stolen from us."

 _Us_.

Though powerful Italian families had long since warred with each other for the control of Rome, it was understood that the Papacy was earned through bribery and the dirty elections. It was not a crown passed onto heirs, but a prize.

Surely, Turino knew this.

Duilio grew serious at Turino's outburst. He laid a hand on his cousin's shoulder, in comfort as much as restraint. A reminder that there were ears everywhere.

"Peace, cousin," Duilio said.

Guerino nodded. "We meant no insult."

Turino sighed. "I know," he said, regaining control of his temper. He squeezed the hand on his shoulder. "But you must understand."

"Aye," Duilio's grip tightened. "Family above all else."

Turino nodded gratefully.

"But what of Filippo and Cirillo, cousin?" Guerino asked. "Will they be staying here with you?"

Turino shook his head. "They return with you to Pesaro."

Duilio frowned as he fell back. His eyes shifted to the boys down below, splitting grins on both their faces as they watched the drunken cardinals around them. "Well Cirillo, certainly, will return with us. But I had thought Filippo would return to Milan."

Guerino agreed with Duilio. "The boy does need to know the court he will rule someday."

"My sister will understand," Turino said. "They will be needed elsewhere."

"What have you planned for them, Turino?" Duilio asked. "They are young still."

"And their instruction must continue. They must be prepared when I have need of them."

Duilio was concerned. Himself childless, he had grown very fond of the boys yet as much as he loved them, he would be the first to admit that although they looked the very princes of Christendom, they were not ready for the world Turino knew. Not yet.

However, his worry had deeper roots than mere affection. Turino’s younger brother Ferrante had been thrust into the life of a soldier at the insistence of his father. Terenzio, whose clout was overshadowed by a Pope for a father and a Cardinal for a son, needed a champion of his own making. Ferrante was twenty when he led a _condottiere_ of his own; twenty-one when he died defending the coastal surrounding Forli against raiders in a campaign Terenzio unwisely thought to be so simple, it was seen as nothing more than a display of power. With the death of his heir died the last of Turino’s faith in his father, and so Terenzio lost the heart of Milan to his children.

But both Duilio and Guerino knew the way of their family. Turino long hungered for the Papacy--and no Durini ever sat the throne without the company of his own kin within the walls of Rome.

"The cloth and the armor, then, is it?" Guerino asked gravely.

Turino nodded. He would have one in crimson robes and the other bearing the standard of the papal armies.

"Which one will you have don which, Turino?"

"It remains to be seen," Turino answered, but all knew it for a lie. Turino had already decided the fate of his sister-sons the moment he laid eyes on them or, perhaps, even long before then, when the history of the family stretched long enough behind them that certain traditions had inadvertently asserted themselves upon the Durini before they even knew it.

The elder waged war, but it was the younger that fought them.


End file.
